


Mad Dog

by Whtevrhpnd2mary



Category: The Who
Genre: Animal Transformation, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 16:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whtevrhpnd2mary/pseuds/Whtevrhpnd2mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John suffers a bite, and a bit of a change in attitude. Pete suffers a rough night, and a bit of a change in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010 for my own Halloween challenge on the (then active) LJ Who slash fiction community, and appears here with only minor grammatical changes. Time period around '71-'72. Just for fun; came out of a drawing I did. I'm posting this because I still like it. Comments welcomed.

John Entwistle walked into the studio, taking in the scene before him. Pete and Keith were standing off to the side, each with a drink in hand, chatting amiably. Roger stood from where he was seated in front of his microphone, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“We did say ten o’clock, right?” he questioned in a slightly annoyed tone.

“Good morning to you too,” John muttered, making his way to the table and pouring himself a drink as well.

The exchange caught Pete’s ear and he looked up, followed by Moon, curious as to where his companion’s attention had strayed.

“Sorry,” John started, looking over at the guitarist. “Rough morning.”

As he took a drink, Moon caught sight of a bit of gauze on the bassist’s hand, and immediately made his way over to inspect it.

“What’d you do here, then?” the drummer inquired, grabbing John’s wrist and carefully lifting the bandage. An angry looking set of marks stood out beneath, the skin around them red and warm.

“Just a bit of roughhousing with Jason,” he answered, pulling his sore hand away from the drummer’s scrutinizing gaze. “Got a little carried away.”

“Remember you still got to play with that hand, you know,” Roger chimed in, stepping closer to observe the damage himself.

John scowled at him, covering the wound again.

“Noted,” he responded sourly. As they both turned away, readying themselves for the day’s work, Pete drew himself closer to John.

“You alright then?” he asked, voice pitched so only John could hear him.

“If this damned headache would go away, I’d be lovely,” was the initial response. John looked up, seeing a hint of concern in the blue eyes that peered back at him. He sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Pete nodded, briefly squeezing his friend’s shoulder before moving off to get his guitar. John rubbed his temples with his fingers.

 _Why do I get the feeling this is going to be a long day?_  
_________________________________________________

Something was wrong, that much John knew. From the time he had left the studio last night, he continued to feel progressively worse. Now, backstage before their show that night, he was feeling positively horrible.

It wasn’t just the headache now, though that was still there, dully throbbing against the front of his skull. He now had a fever, having woken up that morning in a sweat. His joints had started to ache midway through the day, especially his hands, and he was now becoming honestly concerned about his ability to play this show.

And those were just the physical symptoms. If that had been all, perhaps he could have written this off as some kind of flu and be done with it. But other, stranger things were beginning to happen.

His ears seemed unusually sensitive; everything felt much louder than normal. The same now could be said for his sense of smell, as he could barely stand all the different scents that assaulted his nose, particularly the lingering cigarette smell that he normally barely noticed.

And there had been dreams as well. He had awoken no less than three times during the night, each time with a disturbing feeling sending a chill through his spine. He couldn’t remember the images, try as he might, but the sheer fact that he was shaken at all was cause for worry. No nightmare had bothered him before, not since his childhood.

John scratched absently at his hand before looking down. He let out a dry chuckle, examining his skin and finding no sign of the bite marks from yesterday’s misadventure with his dog.

It was the only thing that had gotten better since then.

At first he wondered if someone may have spiked one of his drinks at some point, but it quickly became evident that this was going on too long to be any drug he was aware of. The effect was only becoming stronger as time passed; he hadn’t even had more than water to drink since he’d gotten up.

Nothing tasted right, either.

John was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of the door behind him quietly opening.

“What is it Moon?” the bassist asked, not so much as glancing back at his visitor. Keith looked surprised, and it took him a moment to respond.

“Uh, just wanted you to know we got five minutes,” he answered, confused expression on his face. “You alright, Ox?”

John sighed.

“Just not feeling well. Let’s get this show over with so I can go home and sleep it off.” He stood, grabbing his bass and meeting the drummer at the door.

“Hey, how’d you know it was me at the door?” Moon asked, genuinely curious.

“Instinct.”  
_________________________________________________

_Thank fucking Christ!_

It was the first thought that came to John after the show was over.

He’d almost made it through without incident, swallowing back nausea that had nearly overwhelmed him. It was so loud, so confusing. He had no idea how well he’d played, but in the end it really didn’t matter. He had done something so drastic, so uncharacteristic, that he was certain it was the only thing on everyone’s mind.

He was glad he hadn’t been playing one of his favorite basses, considering the one he had been using was now a collection of expensive splinters all over the stage floor.

The noise was so intense to his ears that he’d finally lost all control, ripping the instrument off at the end of ‘My Generation’ and practically pulverizing it, his violent reaction comparable to any of Pete’s worst gear-smashing tirades. So much for playing ‘Magic Bus.’

_Well, I suppose it wasn’t all bad._

Moon had simply shouted at him, “I think you got it!” But he’d spoken to John beforehand, and knew he wasn’t feeling right. Pete had eyed him with an unreadable expression, but had said nothing. He had the benefit of knowing when to approach John and when to leave him alone, and this time he actually decided to act on that knowledge and stay away.

Roger, on the other hand, had neither of these advantages, and thus he stopped the bassist after the others had made a hasty retreat to an after party.

“So, what’s going on with you, then?” he asked without preamble. “You do realize that I never said anything about turning down, right?”

John clenched his teeth, trying to remain focused on the singer, but images began flooding into his mind.

“Yes,” he ground out.

“But I saw you turn down. More than once!” Roger continued, oblivious to his band mate’s increasing discomfort. As Roger began to relate his shock and awe over the evening’s events, John lost the words amidst the scenes playing out in his brain.

He saw himself smashing Roger in the face, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he ended the annoying flow of words with his fist.

That in itself wasn’t strange at all. He often fantasized about ways to make Roger shut up when he didn’t want to hear him. And it allowed him to effectively ignore the singer as well. But now, John found himself becoming frightened by the sheer effort it was taking him to not act on those impulses. He was clenching his fists so tight they were white and shaking.

“And what possessed you to smash up your bass like that?” Roger was still going.

Sweat was forming on John’s brow as new images assaulted him. His heart began to pound in his chest.

Stalking the singer from the shadows, he crept closer, silently, waiting for the right moment. It came when his prey turned, feeling eyes upon him. Lunging, bloodlust filling him, he tore at the figure beneath him, rending flesh with fang and claw.

John’s eyes snapped open, Roger still in front of him, still talking.

“I’ve got to go,” John interrupted suddenly, turning and making a rapid retreat, leaving a stunned Roger in his wake. He had to get out of there, right now.

Nearly running, John finally made it out a side door and into a quiet alleyway. He was breathing heavily, heart racing. Looking at his hands, he noticed a thin line of blood in each palm from where he had balled his fists so tightly.

_What’s happening to me?_

An abrupt wave of pain wracked his body, causing John to double over and groan. The assault of sounds and smells became too much. He felt as though his blood was burning in his veins. He closed his eyes tightly and wondered if he was going to die.

And then something clicked into place. As suddenly as it had begun, it all stopped. The cacophony of his sensory overload, the pain in his body, the images in his mind, all ended. They were replaced with a clarity of purpose. He could feel, really feel, everything. Instinct had finally broken free of his resistance.

Righting himself slowly and opening his eyes, John took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Everything was so clear now.

With a new purpose, John strode toward the street. He knew where he had to go.  
_________________________________________________

The long walk to Pete’s flat hadn’t tired John out in the slightest. In fact, he felt more wound up now than he had just a few hours ago. The nearly full moon lit up the streets in a pale glow, the light making him warm to the core.

Pete wasn’t home yet, and John decided to just wait outside rather than let himself in; best not to frighten the guitarist. Not too early.

The need inside him was growing with each passing minute, and though he didn’t understand it, he went with the feeling, allowing this new voice inside of him to dictate his actions.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally spied a set of headlights approaching. The large vehicle was traveling fairly slowly, weaving slightly, but eventually came to a stop in front of the house. When the lights went out, the car became clear. A Lincoln Continental.

Pete was home.

He watched from the shadow of the building as Pete emerged, clearly at some level of intoxication, and stumbled to the passenger side. He opened the door and extended a hand to help a young blonde out.

John felt rage flood over him in an instant. He growled deep in his throat. No groupie bitch was going to keep him from his goal.

_He’s mine!_

Emerging from the darkness, John waited for them to make their way to him. The tipsy couple seemed oblivious to him until they had nearly reached the door. When the girl stopped short, looking up, Pete furrowed his brow and followed her gaze.

The bassist stood there, a palpable menace surrounding him. It took a few moments for Pete to register the other man’s presence, but before he could react, a hand reached out, painfully gripping his arm.

“John, what-” Pete’s words died in his throat as he took in the predatory expression on his friend’s face. He was unceremoniously yanked away from his date, pulled in close to the other man.

“Get inside,” John growled roughly. “Now.”

Pete wanted to protest, to ask John what the fuck he thought he was doing, but found himself paralyzed by the intensity in the dark gaze that was practically tearing through him. He swallowed, chancing a quick look at his now ex-date, and nodded.

The grip loosened, and Pete fumbled with his keys before finally opening the door. With a final glance between the shocked woman and the enraged bassist, he closed the door behind him, immediately going for his bottle of gin on the end table.

John turned his glare to the now angry looking woman.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

The urge to just tear the woman apart and rip out her throat was nearly overpowering, but John took a few deep breaths and cleared his mind. It wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause, and his only real interest was getting inside as soon as possible.

He shoved a hand into his pocket, pulling out a small wad of cash, and pressed it firmly into the hand of the stunned woman.

“Get a taxi,” he grunted.

“But-” she started, then snapped her jaw shut as John’s hand squeezed hers painfully. He met her eyes with his own, and something there sent fear through her.

“Leave. Now.” His voice was a low growl.

The girl’s eyes went wide, and she backed off before turning and running.

 _Much better._  
_________________________________________________

Pete froze in mid swig when the front door flew open, and John caught him in his gaze. He swallowed before he choked, and replaced the bottle shakily on the table.

John turned and closed the door quietly behind him, locking it. He eyed Pete over his shoulder before spinning back around. His head was lowered a bit, and his eyes wandered slowly up and down the thin frame of the now trembling guitarist, finally landing back onto wary blue eyes.

Pete stared owlishly back, eyes shining in the darkness. The moonlight that flooded in through the windows cast an eerie glow over the room, leaving everything in half shadow.

A long moment passed as Pete watched John approach him, removing his jacket and tossing it aside. Those eyes had begun their examination again, looking decidedly hungry.

He wanted to speak, to question what was going on, but found he could get nothing out. When John reached him, his body mere inches away, and reached up to cup his face in those large, graceful hands, Pete held his breath.

In the next instant, John’s mouth was on his own, tongue demanding entrance. He gasped in surprise as those hands moved down and began ripping at his shirt, tearing it away in moments, and then nimble fingers were exploring the skin on his chest. He closed his eyes, sighing, the warmth of alcohol relaxing him just enough to allow him to fall into the kiss.

As soon as John sensed Pete responding, he growled and pulled him closer, forcing their bodies together. His hands roamed over as much of the exposed, pale skin as possible, fingers twitching at the soft moans that began to emanate from his friend.

No, his mate.

Just when Pete thought he’d suffocate, John broke away from the kiss, instead beginning to work his way over his neck and shoulders with teeth and tongue, nipping and sucking greedily at his skin. Pete shuddered with each new touch, regaining himself and bringing his own hands up. He tugged impatiently at John’s shirt, freeing it from those tight pants and reaching under it to get a feel of the hot flesh beneath.

Pete suddenly found himself being man-handled across the room and through another door, eventually getting tossed down on his bed. Before he could react, John was tugging his fly open and pulling his pants and briefs off in one swift motion, quickly removing his own clothing as well.

Pete felt extremely vulnerable now, naked and incredibly aroused, his whole body awash with moonlight, the steady rise and fall of his chest casting shallow shadows along his ribs and stomach. John loomed over him, his own body nearly in darkness. He was hard, panting, and his eyes were wild.

He wanted to stop this, to find out what was going on, to prevent what was likely to become a big mistake. When John climbed on top of him, pinning Pete’s arms and legs with his own, the power and control he exerted sent a chill of fear racing up the smaller man’s spine. He honestly didn’t know what was going to happen next.

It was a huge turn on.

The drunk half of Pete’s mind finally overrode his reason, and he completely gave himself over, opening his body to whatever John had planned. The submissive gesture wasn’t lost on John, who grinned savagely before leaning in and taking the other man’s mouth again in a hungry kiss, one hand running over the smooth chest while the other caressed Pete’s hip and thigh.

Pete reached up to touch John, and almost immediately found his arms again pinned to the bed above his head, the kiss ending. The bassist’s smoldering eyes locked with his own.

“Don’t move.” A low command.

Pete swallowed between heavy breaths, but nodded, and felt the painful grip on his wrists vanish. He remained still.

John returned to his ministrations, fingers running over and tweaking one nipple while he lapped at the other with his tongue. The free hand grazed lightly down his belly before closing around his now straining cock.

Pete found it virtually impossible to remain still, squirming beneath his friend’s weight. He felt a hand on his hip as the other one on his shaft began stroking him in an achingly slow rhythm. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the pillow, his own hands running through his hair as the pleasure began to roll over him in waves.

John continued his torturous pace, his own breathing increasing as he watched the body beneath him writhing helplessly. With every whimper and moan that came from Pete’s mouth, he felt his cock twitch in anticipation. A flick of his thumb over the tip sent that slender back into an arch, and John used his other hand to hold Pete down.

For a time, Pete thought this couldn’t get any better. He wanted to beg John to go faster, to give him what he so desperately needed. But if John didn’t want him to move, chances were he didn’t want him to talk either. And no matter how much he wanted release, this was a torment of the most exquisite kind.

Pete let out a loud, ragged moan, all thought fleeing from his mind, as he felt a hot mouth close over his length. Strong arms held him down, preventing him from thrusting back and forcing him to accept the agonizingly slow pace.

John brought him to the brink repeatedly, only to stop just short of letting him come. He was certain he’d go mad from pleasure, and finally couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.

“God John…please…I need…” Pete panted out, stopping to tilt his head back and cry out as teeth grazed his cock. “I want…I…” He couldn’t think, couldn’t articulate what he wanted. What he had to have.

And then the mouth and hands stopped. Pete pried his eyes open to see John leaning down over him, face so close to his own, hot, heavy breaths hitting his lips, dark, smoldering eyes looking into his soul. He felt more naked than he’d ever had before.

“Tell me, Pete,” John whispered roughly, sweat plastering his hair to his brow. “Tell me what you want.”

Just the sound of his voice was almost to enough to make Pete lose it right there, without being touched at all. With a tremendous effort, he began to move, John leaning back and allowing it. He dragged his body around, planting his elbows and knees into the mattress and offering up his ass, knowing he wouldn’t be refused. He attempted to speak over the roaring in his ears.

“Fuck me, John,” he breathed. “Please.”

With a distinctively needy sound, John placed one arm firmly around Pete’s waist, positioning himself over the willing body beneath him. Drawing in a deep breath, he thrust himself inside in one stroke, groaning deep in his throat.

Pete couldn’t suppress the yelp that escaped his lips when the pain hit him, and he swallowed and braced himself, hands clutching the sheets in an iron grip. He felt John’s forehead on his back, could sense him pausing, regaining his breath, nearly spilling himself already.

When eventually John pulled himself up, firmly grasping Pete’s hips with his hands, the guitarist readied himself. He knew neither of them would last long.

And then John began to thrust into him in short, aggressive strokes, and he let out a sound of pure pleasure, all the pain suddenly gone from him. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sound of their breathing, listening to them both strive for the same goal. This was the best he’d ever had, with anyone. He wondered if it were possible to die from ecstasy.

Pete cried out, his back arching as his climax poured over him, engulfing him.

As the body beneath him shuddered, John grit his teeth, the muscles tightening around his cock. His blood was singing in his ears. His teeth and nails began to grow longer, the animal inside of him calling out for freedom, demanding he mark his territory.

Thrusting deeply a final time, he suddenly came with a howl, his claws digging deep into the soft flesh beneath them, though Pete hardly noticed it in his orgasmic haze. He rode out the wave of pleasure completely, all of the wild tension and the burning in his blood draining away, leaving complete satisfaction behind.

John collapsed onto to Pete’s back, both of them then falling into the mattress. The bassist moved off of the exhausted man beneath him, catching his own breath. His hands and teeth returned to normal.

They remained there for a few minutes before the combination of alcohol and post coital lassitude finally overtook Pete, and he fell into a quiet sleep.

It would be another hour before John’s own mind finally gave in to sleep as well, granting him peace for the first time in days.  
_________________________________________________

Awareness returned gradually for Pete. It began with a persistent pounding in his head. Then, sharp pains along his hips. And a dull ache coming from his ass…

Pete’s eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright in the bed, shaking the mattress beneath him. He turned his head to see John, still asleep, beside him.

_Oh God, it did happen._

He closed his eyes, replaying the evening in his mind. Despite his hangover suggesting otherwise, his memory of the events seemed strangely clear.

_Why this one time?_

Pete felt eyes upon him, and opened his own to see another pair of calm, slate eyes gazing back.

“What the hell happened!?” Pete blurted out before he could stop himself.

John sighed and sat up slowly, reaching down to the floor to his pants and removing his cigarettes and lighter. Offering one to Pete, who gratefully snatched it and immediately lit up, John then lit his own and took a long drag. Pete waited anxiously for John’s response.

It wasn’t at all what he was expecting.

“Well, I hate to tell you this Pete,” he began in a long-suffering tone, “but, you’re a werewolf.”

Pete’s shining blue eyes shimmered in wonder. His brain froze for a moment, the absolute absurdity of the answer striking him dumbfounded. John’s gaze remained nonchalant.

“WHAT!?” Pete crowed.

“Well, as much as I can conclude,” John continued with his explanation, unaffected by Pete’s reaction, “Jason must have picked up lycanthropy somewhere.”

“Says the bloody expert!”

“He must have given it to me a couple of days ago.”

“Fucking wonderful!”

“And I gave it to you last night.”

“Brilliant!”

John raised an eyebrow.

Pete gasped, pulling the sheets from his hips, seeing now the blood on them. On each side, just below his ribcage, stood out a distinct set of claw marks, like an animal’s, but clearly made by human hands. And of course, there was that dull ache to remind him of just how far they’d gone. The pain, and the memory, had him completely aroused again in moments.

“Sorry,” John said sheepishly, momentarily embarrassed by the situation. “Got a little…carried away I guess.”

Pete just stared in awe as John got up, gathering his clothes and strolling off to the bathroom. It was in this position still that John found him several minutes later while he put his jacket on and meandered back to the bed. He stopped in front of Pete, breaking his daze, and leaned forward, cupping the younger man’s chin in his hand and placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

Nothing like last night…

When he pulled away, Pete saw an apology in his friend’s eyes before he stood, walking away.

“Don’t worry Pete, you’ve still got three days before the full moon,” he called back as he left.

Pete’s mouth fell open again, and it was some time before he recovered himself.

 _I’ve gone completely mad._  
_________________________________________________

**Three days later…**

John strode into the studio early, eager to watch Pete as much as he could today to see what would happen. But as soon as he opened the door, he knew he was already too late.

The entire room was strewn with debris. Chunks of plastic and metal, and various electronic components, littered the floor. And in the far corner, hunched in the darkness created by a smashed ceiling lamp, was a hulking, furred figure. The creature resembled a seven-foot-tall, genuine anthropomorphic wolf.

John couldn’t help the wicked smirk that broke out on his face.

The beast lifted its head, and that unmistakable, piercing blue gaze fell upon John. In his hand he held the remnants of a broken guitar. Beneath his feet were the remains of what appeared to be a few amplifiers, a chair, some mic stands, and was that a cymbal?

“Getting started so soon?” John commented in an amused tone. “It’s still morning.”

“I was…just…so angry…” Pete growled out, a defeated expression coming over his face. His ears drooped endearingly.

Yeah, that’s going to be a problem.

Pete turned his gaze down, the energy leaving him, and began to sulk in the corner. John smiled, a warm feeling overtaking him.

“Just remember who the alpha is,” he teased. He received the desired response, as Pete snarled at him.

But it’s going to be one hell of a ride. After all, wolves mate for life.


End file.
